Border Crossings and Customs

A few days after that Phoenix housewife - Yanira Maldonado - got pulled off a bus and thrown in a Mexican prison because drugs were taped under her seat, I went through that same checkpoint on a shuttle from Hermosillo to Tucson. I was not surprised that we had to get off the shuttle and have our luggage x-rayed but I was surprised at how much time and effort the soldier boy put into going through the van, looking under seats, tapping here and there. He probably spent a good half hour. At the time I didn't know about Mrs. Maldonado. If I had, that would've added a little more stress to a situation I'm always anxious about.

Crossing the border is intimidating - both sides of the border, be it U.S. or Mexico or that military checkpoint. Even though nothing bad has happened to me, it's still stressful to have someone go through your stuff when you're sent over to secondary, or you get that red light in the "Nothing to Declare" lane. Especially that because we're always coming into Mexico with way more stuff than we're allowed. However, even when we've had the red light and our vehicles have been searched, nothing's come of it, not even the time I was with a friend who had a brand new tent, paddle board, between us 3 cases of wine, etc. etc. On that trip into Mexico we got two red lights, a rudimentary search both times and sent on our way.

Not this time. This time as Pam and I approached the first checkpoint, just after crossing the border and going through the first toll booth, we did our little "green light green light" mantra. Didn't work. Red light. We pulled over and a nice young woman with braces didn't even want to go through the truck; she just asked how much those tires were worth, that chain saw, all the other stuff we had. So we followed her into the office where Pam made up some figures and I handed over my $200 receipt from Target. She estimated the value of the stuff in the truck as $1,100 U.S. At 16% tax we owed about 2,200 pesos or $200. She sent us over to the bank to pay the tax where the crabby bank teller said she couldn't take a credit card. Was there an ATM? Of course not. We didn't have enough cash between us to pay the tax so we had to go back to the U.S. to the ATM at Bank of America in Nogales. At least the crabby bank teller said they'd take U.S. dollars.

Back through the toll booth where we forked over another 47 pesos, then a half hour wait to cross the border into the States. Pam was worried about this, about crossing into the States with a truck full of stuff but I figured if she just showed the customs agent the tax form we'd be okay. No problem there. I directed her to BofA, she got cash, we crossed the border into Mexico, back through that toll booth, and stopped at the customs office to pay the tax. Pam had a near nervous breakdown when she went into the bank and they told her it was too late in the day to pay in dollars. WTF?! But the nice new teller calmed her down and said she could pay in dollars in the office.

By the time we finished there, stopped at kilometer 21 in order for me to get my visa, it was 4:15. Way later than we like because that meant we'd be making that drive from Hermosillo to Kino in the dark. Always a scary thing to do.

As I type this, four days later, it dawns on me that we could've just driven into Nogales, Sonora, and hit a Banco Santander there - not even messed with that toll booth and the U.S. border. For a couple of smart women we were not thinking very clearly. Idiotas!

So, here's what we learned:

1) Pam will definitely cut down on the big items she brings in, making sure people know up front that she will be declaring those items and they will have to pay the import tax. Of course, people were very understanding  and forked over their share of the tax. The chainsaw owner did grouse a bit, saying tools are exempt.

2) In my research on what you can bring into Mexico duty free, tools are not exempt. Nowhere does it say that. Here's what it says: If crossing by land you are allowed whatever can fit in your suitcase and $75 worth of goods above that (per person). If it's Easter week or summer (which starts in July) you are allowed $300 per person. That's it. There are no exemptions. Now I guess if you have a tool box of used tools, they'd let that fly but a brand new chainsaw in a box? No way. Who needs a chainsaw here anyway? There aren't any trees.

3) We got off easy. If you do what we did - get in the nothing to declare lane with items that should be declared - they can double the tax. Depending on the value of the items you're trying to sneak in, they can also make you pay the actual cost of those items on top of the 33% tax. And if you're really bad, they will confiscate all that stuff and your vehicle. (Supposedly your vehicle will also be confiscated if you have an accident and you don't have insurance and a visa, which is why I made the trip north in the first place, to get that visa.)

The new state government is making an effort to collect all taxes owed - like that beach front property tax the people here are having to pay. I think more and more people crossing into Mexico will be given the red light. I think if you have more than $75 worth of personal items - clothes and groceries - they're not going to do much about that but big ticket items - tires, appliances - you'll get nailed.

There was a strange incident on that shuttle ride. As we got close to the border the shuttle driver and a motorcycle guy who was stopped on the side of the road exchanged honks and waves. The shuttle pulled into the Pemex station, at a pump behind the building, and the motorcycle guy pulled up next to us. The driver got out of the van. He and the motorcycle guy walked away for a brief exchange, then the driver got back in the van and we drove away without getting gas. Given that recent story about Mrs. Maldonado, it kinda makes you wonder....

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One of the more frustrating things about living here has been the limited access to movies and music on the internet. No free Hulu movies, no renting Amazon movies, no watching full episodes of Criminal Minds, no buying mp3s. I guess if I were an i-thingy kind of person - iPad or iPod or iWhatever - I could take advantage of iTunes but I'm not. Besides, I'm not sure how much iTunes' content is available outside of the U.S.

There is now Netflix Mexico but I couldn't get that to work. I don't want to use any of those download sites like Pirate Bay because I'm paranoid about viruses.

So one of the things that saved me from feeling culturally deprived was my Kindle e-reader. As least I could feed my need for instant gratification with books from Amazon.

Then suddenly one day I could purchase mp3s from Amazon. A friend was visiting last fall and she tried it on her Kindle Fire and was able to successfully buy an mp3. What the hell? So I tried it from my computer and tada! it worked. With no hoopla or notice, people outside the U.S. (at least here in Mexico) were able to buy mp3s.

Books and music. That's a start.

I gave my mom my Kindle when I upgraded to a Kindle Fire.

One night I was roaming around on the Kindle Fire and just for the hell of it I clicked the rent button for "Silver Linings Notebook" and voila, there it was. I was so shocked that I couldn't concentrate on the movie. I figured it was a fluke so the next night I tried it again. Bingo! "The Promised Land" with Matt Damon and Frances McDormand.

Free Prime instant videos are still holding out, expressing their condolences that because I'm out of the U.S. I can't view them. But I keep trying, knowing that it's only a matter of time until they cave.

I love the Kindle Fire. The Dolby sound is terrific. I've enjoyed watching movies in bed and last Sunday I sat outside beading with the Kindle propped up on the table, watching some lame chick flick. The battery life of the Fire is good and can be extended by keeping the wireless signal off. Setting up my email account was super easy. And I can even download transcription jobs on the Kindle to be uploaded to my laptop which is what I plan on doing when I'm on this road this summer. (When did we get to the point where laptops are considered big and cumbersome?)

Finally I'll get caught up on movies! I don't mind paying a rental fee - to me it's worth it. And when I'm in the States I plan on taking advantage of the free Prime movies as often as possible. I'm not sure if I'll regret not getting the 4g version. If so some day my mom will be getting this Kindle Fire HD 8.9"....

Beach and Taxes

The federal government here in Mexico decided to start collecting on a beachfront owner's tax that was apparently established in 2008 only no one knew anything about it. A couple months ago people with homes on the beach received notices tucked into their doors and gates about this tax but most people just kind of ignored the notice, waiting for some other official word which never came. Finally some people took it upon themselves to go to the tax office and sure enough, if your home sat along the blue line on the map you were on federal property and had to pay the tax. However, home owners were told the back tax penalty would be waived if people came in before the first of June.

This was the purpose for our trip to Hermosillo. My friend who will be gone for the summer needed to see how much in taxes she owed. So along with another friend and our trusted Romanian chauffeur, we went to Hermosillo for the day. No movie plans, no big shopping plans; just hit steaming pile of poop bank

(really, doesn't the logo look like that?), go to the tax office then fine dine.

Our driver found the tax building with no problem and we found the correct office also with no problem. There was no line and we were immediately ushered into the tax lady's office. She showed us the map of Kino. My friend's house sat behind the blue line meaning she didn't owe the tax and woohoo! drinks would be on her. But it was amazing how many of the homes did sit on federal land - way on federal land. Why were they allowed to build there in the first place? Who knows. This is Mexico.

The restaurant we chose was Mochomos on Morelos over by San Jose Hospital. It's a lovely restaurant with a great wine list and a varied menu with enough meat to satisfy our meat-loving chauffeur. We had two bottles of a white French wine, chef's salad to share, a wonderful queso fundido (a melted cheese dish with green chiles and chorizo) and, of course, our four main dishes which included pork, beef, duck tacos and chicken and asparagus. The prices were terrific - our whole meal including tip came to about $40 a person.

That will be my last trip to Hermosillo with my girlfriends for the next few months because they're all leaving for the summer. Will I leave, too? Fingers crossed that the answer is yes.

~ ~ ~ ~

Back at the trailer park I pulled my chair over to the seawall. The kitten followed. He always does. We spied some kids digging in the sand.

peeing in the Sea of Cortez

plastic glimmering in the setting sun

Blue's feeling a little jealous of the kitten and joined us, too

No Mas Hora Feliz?

From 2010 a smaller happy hour group

A few years back - before all the scares about Mexico - our happy hour group here at the trailer park would number somewhere around thirty. People gathered in a circle by the seawall, or if it was too windy they'd set up between the first and second rows of RVs. Often there'd be two separate groups - the Canadians in one and the Californians in the other although the lines weren't that clearly drawn; the Canadians included New Mexicans and the Californians included Oregonians. But the two groups represented a sort of changing demographic where the California group were the older people who'd been coming to Islandia for years and the Canadian group represented the more recent arrivals. Then the Canadians left. Because Mexico was too dangerous. Because there were too many dogs. Because it was too noisy. Because it was too cold. Because of whatever. The Californians - the old-timers - they just got old (and beyond old if you get my drift).

Now, no matter the state- or country-hood or size of the group, happy hour happens every night at the patio table at S's place on the front row. If S isn't there for some reason, happy hour happens anyway (we don't need no stinkin' host). A couple summers back when I returned to Mexico after a month or so in Bisbee I was surprised to see that happy hour was in full swing with Islandia's three full-time residents. Senior Citizens and Happy Hours go hand-in-hand come hell, high water, humidity or hurricanes.

But a change is comin'. S may be moving out of the park to a place he's built a few blocks away. He has a buyer for his RV but the sale is contingent on whether he not he's going to like living in town, whether or not he'll be happy giving up his ocean view, and whether or not he'll be lonely at happy hour. He's got a couple buddies who I'm sure will go to his new place but will they go every night? Will the rest of us want to walk over with our snacks and beverages? If I need to refill my gin and tonic I won't be able to just wander back over to my trailer; I'll have to arrive at happy hour with all the fixings. And do I want to sit on someone's patio inside a walled compound and not be able to see the sea, to watch the sunset? Isn't that one of the reasons I'm here?

This summer will be much like my first summer here when there were so few people in the trailer park and I had no friends outside the park. I was pretty creative that summer. I spent a lot of time in the water. I read and drank beers under the palapas watching the pelicans and gulls do battle. It wasn't as hot that summer and I spent a lot of time walking the beach, taking photos. I'm kind of looking forward to my own private happy hours.

The current happy hour spot - soon to become a thing of the past?

The beginning of another year

It's been strange, waking to this run of cloudy days in pretty much always-sunny Kino Bay. No rain yet, but  last Thanksgiving it rained hard and constant. It was cold. This year I'm heading to New Mexico to hang out with friends. We plan on spending hours in the jacuzzi with lots of wine. Maybe we'll hit Santa Fe for a day and that little town New Madrid where Wild Hogs was filmed. It's been a long time since I've expanded my life outside of Kino and southern Arizona.

It's also been strange how slow it's been for the snowbirds to return to the trailer park. Usually by this time Flo is planning the Thanksgiving potluck, walking around with a sign-up sheet for mashed potatoes and other side dishes, and there are so many people she's always worried there won't be enough food. So far only one snowbird couple has returned. What's going on? Well, on my row alone one couple sold their place, one man died (and his wife won't be returning), and then next door to me the wifebeater is still in prison in Hermosillo and his wife won't be returning either. A couple years ago the Canadians stopped coming to Mexico, only going as far as Yuma or some place. The Californians who'd been coming for years got too old to make the trip. As of yet, no youngens have cropped up to take their place.

However, an interesting demographic shift has occurred at the trailer park: Full-timers. There are eleven of us now. One couple, three single men and seven single women. The man in the couple said now that they're here full year, they feel territorial about the park and are happy that the snowbirds are slow to arrive. I can so relate! I always dreaded the snowbird return to MY park. The lack of privacy mostly, but the dramas, the petty arguments, the who's not speaking to who, grown-ups indulging in summer camp behavior.

November has always been a month of change for me, way more a beginning than an end, and today is one of my biggest anniversaries - eight years since leaving Portland. As with last year and the year before and the five before that, I am grateful I made that change. But as with previous years, I wonder what's next. So far the what's next has remained the same - entrenched in Kino. Itching to leave, not knowing where to go, making new friends which makes it fine to stay put, waiting for the right time to make a move.

I'll be away for the next two, maybe three weeks. I'm not taking the laptop (this is when I wish I had a Kindle Fire or an Ipad or something). To all you Americans out there, have a great Thanksgiving. As Barbara Bush says, "People spoke. Move on, get on with it." For my Mexican friends, celebrate your hearts out on Dia del Revolucion! For all of you shop local, support your friendly neighborhood artists. (But if ever I can get movies in Mexico on a Kindle Fire, that's going on my Christmas wish list.) I'd send up a prayer for peace in the Middle East but that don't look like it's gonna happen any time soon. To my daughter, I'll be looking for you on t.v. at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. And for the rest of my family, you have no idea how much you are in my heart and thoughts right now.

On that note...I'm out of here.

Beach Cookies

After beachcombing this beach for five years I've gotten picky about the shells I gather. Pretty much the shells I like are the ones you see here - the potato chip or jingle shells, those little fan-like shells in the bottom left corner, and sand dollars. All of which are hard to come by which is one of the reasons I like them.

A couple years ago I was walking Popeye beach (down by the estuary) and a friend found one of those small keyhole sand dollars. I was so jealous. For days after I combed that beach looking for one with no luck. Then a few weeks ago I took some women to a beach which is good for beachglass and as soon as the words left my mouth - "we should go to sand dollar beach the next time you're here" - one of the women looked down and there was a keyhole sand dollar. Damn. At sand dollar beach we've found keyhole sand dollars but they're usually big. To me there's something special about these small ones, the size of a chocolate chip cookie. And a cookie is what the people here call them.

Yesterday I walked through town, to the now empty barrio, crawled through the barbed wire fence and up a hill to the restaurant Los Naufragos which, I discovered, is part of the private land that's been fenced off. I slid down the dune, careful to slide under the newly constructed barbed-wire fence that now runs along the beach.

On the beach I took a deep breath and told myself that my vision is too narrow. I need to relax, view the beach as a whole, and maybe one of those sand dollars would show up. I also gave myself a mighty good lecture about how I needed to get my life, my mood, my emotions back on track. I needed to get back the feeling I had when I first came to Kino. I'd been riding the wave of a glorious high-on-life feeling from the Home for the Bewildered. I remember those first days in Kino, sitting outside the trailer reading, listening to the water, endless hours walking on the beach. A summer hot but not as hot as the ones to follow. Then how my joy took a nose dive as snowbirds began arriving with their conservative and racist attitudes. How I spent years feeling as though I didn't fit in but I didn't know where to go. Tried Bisbee. It didn't work. Came back to Kino.

As interesting, quirky and wonderful as Kino can be, I began slipping into a familiarity breeds contempt state.  I felt stuck and stuck was not a feeling I ever wanted to feel again. But I was very, very broke and therefore stuck in Kino for a real reason. Yeah, I could visualize the life I wanted all I wanted but the bottom line is at the very least I needed money for gas and food to go off in search of that life and I didn't have that.

After my lecture I continued walking the beach, gathering jingle shells. On the return walk home I walked in the water, just at the edge of the surf. I was hot and sweaty and the cool water felt great on my bare feet, the sand smooth, washed clear of shells. And then there it was. Right in front of me, all alone, that keyhole sand dollar glistening white against the dark sand. I stood there and looked around. Then before I stooped to pick it up I looked out at the sea and said "thank you!" It was one of the creepiest things that's ever happened to me.

When I reached the muelle I ran into Tio, the old man who walks the beach gathering beer cans. I'd seen him in town when I started my walk and now here he was at the end. He had a treasure too: A canvas-covered mattress pad, kind of like the ones you see on bench seats or big lounge chairs. He had it folded in half, tied with a string, and carried it on his back. We stopped to admire each other's treasures. He pretended to take a bite of my sand dollar cookie. Tio was very excited about this new bed of his. I was excited to have this reminder that things come to us when we need them. And how small my needs are in comparison to others.

that was the week that was

What fun to wake up this morning and read the Facebook posts from last night. And to read the things I posted. Did I really write that? Ugh, too much prosecco. No wait. Is there such a thing as too much? Certainly not on a night like last night. Four years ago we breathed a huge sigh of relief but that was nothing compared to the deep breath I took last night. A Romney presidency would've been downright scary. McCain was Casper the Friendly Ghost in comparison to Romney's Freddie Kruger.

This morning I woke - or more appropriately I disentangled myself from election night hangover - to see my own private but very much public masturbator standing outside the gate trying to see me as I lay in bed. Last night I'd left all the roller shades up thinking that by the time I got home the masturbator wouldn't be around but now I remember seeing the glow of his cigarette outside the gate but I didn't care. So I went to bed with the shades up. The windows in this house are mirrored and impossible to see in during the day. However, I'd left the bedroom sliding glass door open about 18 inches. The masturbator was gazing into the gap trying to see my reflection in the wall of closet door mirrors. I got a pretty good look at him - average height and weight, baseball cap on backwards, white rubber boots. I've seen those boots at night. They seem to glow. Now I know the boots belong to him. I will be more diligent, have the camera ready. Strike a pose, asshole!

My emotions this week pretty much ran the gamut from joy and appreciation to anxiety and sadness.

A friend visited from Seattle - I've known her for decades - and we had a great week although I did worry she'd get bored. That didn't happen. All our nights were filled with dining and wining with my Kino women friends, our days pretty low key except for our kayak/stand-up paddle board excursion out in the estuary with seven other women - five in kayaks and four on paddle boards.

The week's sadness surrounded the eviction - which is way too nice a word for what happened - of the people from a number of barrios here. See my blog entry from November 4th for more details. And now I've learned that two good friends - my adopted son and my corazon - have to be out of their home in three weeks - a home they've lived in for years. Just writing that makes me feel like throwing up. I haven't been able to find much in the newspapers about this but there is this article which says that the Human Rights Commission is getting involved. I hope another barrio opens up for them, a place they can stay. Vanna will be available for moving services.

We were too exhausted after kayaking to go to the cemetery for the Day of the Dead festivities. My Seattle friend has a thing for cemeteries so we went the next day. All the gravesites were cleaned up, flowers and offerings everywhere. I thought this particular site was interesting because of the banners on the wall picturing the deceased.

When people visit their loved ones they bring food and drink, tequila or bacanora for the adults, Coca Cola for the kids, and often there is music. This family hired a group of musicians to serenade their dearly departed.

Of course the weather was perfect the entire week.

And now with my prosecco hangover I'm off to kayak the estuary with friends. This time I'm taking a camera. Hopefully the white pelicans will still be there.

Some good things happened last night. Let the celebration continue!

Wifebeater Update

This movie, called El Gringo, is now
showing in Hermosillo.

When I lived in that trailer park Arizona I created a blog called "On Silver Wings". I was new to living in an Airstream, new to living in the desert and just so damn excited about my new life that I blogged enthusiastically - and honestly - about pretty much everything. I never wrote negatively about anyone (except for "the sheriff") but still, when people started reading my blog and identified themselves, it got awkward and I killed the blog. When I first got to Kino, I created another blog but kept it anonymous - I never mentioned the town I was writing about nor my name or other identifying information. Now with this blog everything's out in the open and I face the same problem here - writing about a small community while more people in that community are reading the blog. I am constantly self-editing. How honest can I be about some of the things here? About the people? Especially the people in my trailer park? Most the time I think "fuck it" - I have to write honestly or the writing is stilted. Or I don't write at all.

So here's an update on my trailer park neighbor who tried to kill his wife. People in Kino who read this blog know who I'm talking about. And, hell, maybe someday the attempted murderer's wife will even read what I write here. Fuck it.

The asshole's still in prison - the old, tough and scary prison on Hermosillo's eastern edge. If I didn't despise him so much, if I wasn't so repelled by the thought of seeing his now-thinning face with its over-sized gleaming white false teeth making him look like a Day of the Dead skeleton, I'd go interview him about his life in that scary Mexican prison. Sometimes I think about him and try to imagine how he spends his days there. I know that he greased some palms and got moved to a better part of the prison. I know that he complains to his lawyer about the food. (No shit, dude. You shoulda thought about that before you tried to kill your wife. Pendejo!) People joke that he's finally learning Spanish. I know that his family get his medicine and toiletries and stuff like that to him via friends of mine. And, boy, does that piss me off.

It pisses me off that they use my Mexican friend - well, they don't "use" him, they pay him - to take these items to the prison because, unfortunately, he knows how to maneuver through the system. And it pisses me off that my gringo friend acts as intermediary. Last night when I told el gringo how I felt, he said "well, he [the asshole] is really sorry." Well fuck a duck, all wifebeaters are sorry afterwards. And, frankly, from what I've heard he doesn't seem sorry. When one of the people who was present that horrific night gave his deposition to the judge, the asshole had his lawyer bring him a slip of paper with all these biblical sayings on it, things like "thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor." Does that sound like a man who has faced what he's done honestly?

I was very happy to learn that the person who had agreed to be the mail drop wrote the family and said he was no longer interested in playing that role, they'd have to find someone else. I have another friend who comes down here regularly and I'm afraid they'll approach her and she'll say yes. I hope beyond hope that she won't do it. Not very Christian of me, is it? Well when my Mexican friend was in prison and we were trying to get him out, the asshole refused to help, saying that he needed to learn his lesson. Karma, cabron. You need to learn your lesson.

El gringo who acts as intermediary with the family wasn't there the night of the beating. I think if he had been - if he'd heard the wife screaming, if he'd seen the husband come out and bear-spray spray and machete the neighbors - if he'd seen all that, maybe he wouldn't be so quick to help. I was there. Which is another reason I won't face him in prison because I'd be tempted to take a machete to his head then I'd be in that hell hole.

What's the latest? Well he wasn't extradited as some people believed would happen. They said Mexico won't want to deal with him, the possibility of this Americano dying under their watch, so they'll ship him out. Didn't happen. The process through verdict and sentencing takes about eight months and it looks like he'll be in at least that long. Should he be found guilty on two counts of attempted murder, he could face 15 to 20 years. Can he buy his way out? That's a possibility but it won't be cheap. People estimate 60 to 80 thousand dollars.

I can't imagine what it's like for this man to be in that Mexico prison. But I get enjoyment picturing him there. Yeah, yeah, maybe bad karma on my part. Fuck it.

Madre, can you spare a peso?*

Omar (on the left) and Manny (the other one) work at the trailer park.

Manny's worked at the park since before I got here. How Omar came on the scene, I'm not really sure. In the five years since I've been here, we've gone through a string of workers. Manny's dad worked here for years until he got pissed off and walked off the job. We had some kind of hot gangsta dude for a a very brief time. He took to lazing around rather quickly and was pretty useless. One guy's work schedule kept getting interrupted with stints in drug/alcohol rehab. Just before the gangsta dude we had Daniel and Martin but Martin got scared off when he accidentally tripped the neighbor's alarm. Daniel is delivering bottled water which is a pretty good job.

Suddenly last summer Omar showed up.

Poor Omar! He has got to be one of the shyest people I've ever met. Muy timido! He would ride around in the truck with Manny looking like a scared rabbit. Manny would yell "shut up Omar!" in english (callete! in espanol) and Omar would giggle. We discovered that Omar was married to a woman who had something like four kids from a previous relationship and she and Omar added three more to the bunch. Not too long after Omar started working at the park he and his wife split up and he moved in with Manny.

One day Omar came to my porch alone and sat in one of my camp chairs. I was at the computer and could see him through the window. I went outside and Omar rattled off a memorized script which I could barely understand except for two words "pagar" and "sabado." I've been hit up for loans many times so I figured that's what he wanted. "Cuanto?" I asked. "Dos cientos." I went inside and scrounged up 200 pesos and gave it to him. Again he repeated the script - he'll pay me on sabado (which is payday). Saturday rolled around and there was Omar with my 200 pesos.

We developed a routine. Mid week he would come over and sit in a camp chair. I'd go outside. That's when I would see his wife waiting for him on the side of the road. She'd come to Omar asking for money for the kids; he'd come to me asking for a loan. One time he only wanted 100 pesos. So after that I'd go outside and hold up one finger on one hand and two fingers on the other. One or two? Mostly it was two. I'd give him his money and every Saturday he'd pay me back. Manny had taught Omar that if you want to be helped by the americanos, you have got to pay them back or they will cut you off.

Now that I'm living outside the park, I haven't seen much of Omar and Manny. However the other morning they came by to hit up Banco Madre. Manny put the 5-gallon water bottle (garrafon) on the dispenser for me then Omar rattled off his script. Manny said he needed money too. I feigned shock. Tu tambien Manuel? Si, madre, si. So I went and got two 200 peso notes and handed them to the boys. Omar giggled the whole time.

I've seen a lot of changes in Manny over the past few years. He's grown into a responsible man who's looking for a good Christian woman. From what I understand, Omar tries as much as he can to help out his wife and kids and once a week goes to her place and spends the night there. (Hopefully just visiting and not making more babies!)

Manny and Omar - I couldn't have asked for nicer adopted sons.

*this is for Bill S.

Spanish Word of the Day - Peligroso

As most people know, the other day 49 bodies were found in the state of Monterrey, Mexico. They'd been decapitated, mutilated. The drug cartel Zetas claimed responsibility.

Every time something like this happens, it reinforces people's fears of traveling to Mexico. It is too dangerous (peligroso)!

In our local expat email newsletter someone posted a link to a Lonely Planet blog post about the safety of traveling in Mexico: Are Americans Safer at Home than in Mexico. I recommend the article and the comments from gringos who live and travel in Mexico. But I had to laugh at one comment by someone from Oregon who said that in Mexico they've not experienced any crime whatsoever - no burglaries, murders, etc. I so badly wanted to post a response but had a problem creating an account so I'll respond here.

No robberies or burglaries? Are you kidding me? Things are stolen all the time. But does it happen more here than in any neighborhood in the U.S. where you have the homes of wealthy people abutting homes of poor people? I'd say it's about the same. That's why people in the U.S. live in gated communities or have home security systems. Most of the thieving is of small items - shoes, shiny objects, beach chairs - but some can be major like having all the copper stripped from your home. (I know from news accounts that that is a problem in Tucson. Not sure about other parts of the U.S.)

Just the other day a friend's camouflage crocs were stolen. He always leaves his shoes outside his trailer door and, no, he didn't think the dogs had taken them. During happy hour our security guard pulled up on his bicycle and asked if we'd seen P. around, the amputee in the wheelchair, because he thinks P. stole them. Okay, so he thinks the shoes were stolen by a guy with no feet. That's possible. I guess he could've stolen them to sell. But for him to maneuver the wheelchair around all the tables and grills and planters on the patio would be quite a feat even for someone with feet.

Last night P. approached us in his wheelchair wanting to sell some pearls. "Let's see if he's wearing your crocs," I joked. He wasn't. But where's his fancy motorized wheelchair some gringo gave him? I don't know. That's probably another interesting story.

Now this brings me to our security guard. If you want someone to stay up all night patrolling the grounds, best to hire a drug addict and best if he's addicted to a speed-like drug. Our security guard's drug seems to be meth - he's got all the signs from toothlessness to skin eruptions to paranoia. I've heard a couple scary stories about our security guard from a man who's known him for years. The first story is that he tried to murder his girlfriend by burning her up in their trailer. The other story is that he was friends with a gringo who disappeared and he somehow gained possession of the gringo's possessions, his home and property.

Recently our security guard had a puppy. He tortured the puppy and the puppy was taken away. This is not the first time he's abused an animal.

Some little boys came into the park and he shot them with rocks from his slingshot. Turned out one of the boy's parents were paid guests at the park. They left in a huff. I said, "You can't go around shooting little kids just because they're playing in the park."

So that's our security guard.

As far as I know the most serious crimes committed in our little town this past snowbird season were committed by a gringo - the two counts of attempted murder by my neighbor. Oh yeah, and pedophiles. We've had our share of those and thankfully we got rid of our resident pedophile.

I'll conclude by saying Mexico is safe. Just stay away from gringos and don't piss off your security guard.

It's Over

Another snowbird season comes to an end.

Late yesterday afternoon as I sat reading in the lounge chair on my porch I was overcome with a feeling I'm not sure I ever felt before: Ecstasy. Contentment and happiness are elusive enough but ecstasy? That's a rare one.

The motor home to my right is gone. I can see the sea. I can feel a breeze. I can hear the surf. The big ugly bus in the space in front of me is gone. I can see the sea out my front porch door. I can see the sea through the front window of the trailer.

I can blast my music if I want because I have no neighbors. If friends come by and want to party, the guy next door (who tried to kill his wife) isn't here to turn on his spotlight in an effort to run them off. (In retrospect, thank goodness that's all he did.)

It was a quiet snowbird season in the park up until the last couple months. There was one emergency hospitalization in a psychiatric hospital in Hermosillo followed a week later by the neighbor trying to kill his wife along with bear spray spraying and machete-ing people. Then a friend suffered a stroke which meant another Hermosillo hospitalization.

It's no wonder then that as the last of the big rigs pulled out and the vista opened up I was overcome with joy, peace and thrilled with the return of solitude. Of course there are people I'll miss but they'll be back in October and others will arrive and we'll see what kind of dramas next year's snowbird season will bring.

Except I won't be here, in this trailer park.

I'll be in a real house just a little bit down the beach from the trailer park. At this point it's a long-term housesitting gig - the owner will be back for a couple weeks around Christmas - then I'll go back to her house until she returns for a couple months in the spring. It looks like it will be a perfect arrangement. I'll be close enough to my trailer that I can walk over here every day and water plants, feed cats, hang out, have a presence at my home so no one's tempted to break in and steal my copper wiring (which is why the house owner wants someone at her house, having returned to a home stripped of copper). And to make sure the trailer doesn't get overrun with mice and palmetto bugs (the cats should help with that).

My hope is that this summer will be more tolerable when it comes to the heat because I'll have room to spread out and won't be confined to this air conditioned box. And because the house is right on the beach, there should at least be a breeze.

This is going to be quite a change - going from this tin can to a real house, and not just for a month but for months. I didn't like home ownership because I felt isolated, preferring apartment buildings and trailer parks. So it'll be interesting to see how I feel about it now. Will I miss the park and the dramas? Or will there be a balance as I roam between the two places?

I'm excited to see how this plays out...nearly ecstatic.

All Hell Keeps Breaking Loose

I just finished typing up my version of the events for the police, the district attorney, the judge, whomever needs to see it. It was a pretty easy task because I'd run through the story of that night hundreds of times - in my mind and to other people. But there is one part I have a hard time recalling in detail. It's the part where I wasn't killed or bear spray sprayed.

The man in the RV right next door to mine tried to kill his wife. What would you do if you heard your friend screaming? Police always say domestic violence calls are the most dangerous and they warn the public to stay clear and let the police do their job. But the police were slow in arriving and I felt we had to do something so I started banging on the RV door.

This is about the creepiest image from that night: The husband came to the door and smiled at me through the window. "Everything's fine. She's just drunk." He walked away and resumed beating her.

I guess our banging on the RV and screaming at the husband pissed him off enough that he left his wife alone in the back bedroom and when he did that she managed to fling herself head first out the emergency exit. A huge feat and fall for a woman her height (around 5 feet tall).

This is where events get foggy. Another neighbor carried the wife to the lounge chair in front of my trailer. I went inside to get a blanket. When I came out I saw the wife slide off the chair and crawl under my trailer. I watched her husband walk the road in front of my trailer with bear spray in his hands, arms straight out like that pepper spraying cop at the Occupy campus, direct shots to the eyes of two men standing there, direct shot to the eyes of the nice Mexican woman who lives at the end of my row. Where was I that I saw this but was out of the line of fire? I must've been hiding in the shadows next to my trailer where I could see that the wife was under my trailer and that the husband was spraying people but he couldn't see me. I tossed the wife the blanket.

The cops arrived and found the husband. After he'd been cuffed and taken away the wife came out from under my trailer. That's when we learned that another neighbor - the man who had banged on the RV and yelled at the husband right along with me - had received a machete blow to the head. One thousandth of an inch more and that man would be dead, the blade slicing into his brain.

I tended to the two men who had been sprayed, leading them to chairs, turning on the hose, grabbing towels. I sprayed water directly on their faces, rinsed the towels, held them to their faces. BAD MOVE! When I saw the towels the next day - turned orange like they'd been dipped in napalm - I realized I'd been reapplying the bear spray to their faces. And I had failed to keep my hands thoroughly rinsed so they burned all night long along with the area around my mouth.

There was one funny moment. I had to lead one of the men back to his rig. When we got to his door he said "take off your shoes." I mean really, he was worried about the carpet? I led him to his bedroom where he stripped naked while I turned on the water in the shower, being careful to only see his backside.

It wasn't until two mornings later when I woke and realized that if I hadn't gone to tend to the wife at the other side of the RV, if I'd been standing by the door when the husband came out with the machete, I'd be dead. He's a big man. No way my little head - as stubborn and hard as it is - could've survived that blow. And how was it that I avoided the bear spray?

Thankfully no one died. The wife is banged up but okay. The machete'd man will survive. The bear spray sprayed people were resuming normal activities the next day.

What about our decision to get involved? I think our relentless yelling and banging on the RV is what caused the husband to leave his wife alone for the time she needed to escape. Would I do it again? You betcha. But I now know to move away from the door when the husband emerges.

The husband is being held in a Mexican jail on two counts of attempted murder. It will be interesting to see how this plays out. Since living in Mexico I've witnessed expats suffering medical emergencies and sudden deaths. I've seen how the judicial system works for Mexicans. This will be the first time I will see how that system works for an American in Mexico. Of course most people I know hope he rots in a Mexican prison but I wonder if they (his lawyer? the American consulate?) will try to get him extradited.

Most people were shocked - they seemed like such a loving couple. When someone said that to the wife the next morning we looked at each other. I said "I'm not surprised." I knew her husband didn't like me and I didn't like him either. I'd seen bad behavior (not on this level) from him before. This year I felt that things were not right over there.

Domestic violence and RV parks, they seem to go hand in hand, not just here but when I lived up in Amado, too. Retirees mostly. People who are bored. Who maybe drink too much. Who share a small space. I spent years living in close proximity to other people - mostly apartment buildings - and I never saw this much spouse beating.

So far the wife is hanging tough. She's got lots of support from the community and her family. It's difficult to throw over a 30-year marriage but I think she can do it.

I got an email from her the next day when I was up in Tucson. She said everyone in town knew - Mexicans and Americans alike. Can't you just picture the talk in the barrios? "Did you hear about the crazy gringo who almost killed his wife and machete'd a neighbor?" Aye carrumba. Things have been a little too crazy in the park in the recent weeks. Let's hope these things don't happen in threes because if so, we're due one more.

Spanish Word of the Day: Espontáneo

The whole day was spontaneous. We went to the garage sale in New Kino which was kind of a bust but I did buy an acrylic container for shells. I asked how much and the lady said 50 cents. Fifty cents? I couldn't wrap my mind around that. I'm in Mexico and she wants 50 cents? Finally she said 6 pesos. Okay, now that I understood. (Don't get me started on expats who deal in dollars.)

We were stopped at the intersection and my friend asked if we wanted to go to breakfast. I said no, I'd rather just go home. Then she said one word that changed my mind and changed the course of the day: mimosa.

Three mimosas later we were at the Kino Bay RV rec room watching the pool tournament. Got there in time to see Demo shoot. After that we walked across the street to Jorge's. The Coca-Cola delivery men were there and I saw Jorge pick up his guitar.

I was supposed to go out to dinner that night but I spontaneously decided to stay home. It had been such a perfect day.

Spanish Word of the Day: Ginecologia

An indistinct dark-colored van pulls up outside the gynecologist’s office. A tall man gets out and walks to the back doors and helps a woman step down. Actually, she’s more a girl than a woman. So tiny and thin, beautiful, with thick hair pulled back in a pony tail. They come into the office and she takes the chair next to mine. She turns slightly so I can’t see her face but I do see that she has a wadded up tissue in her hands and I hear her sniffling.

The man stands at the door and gives the receptionist the girl’s history which I don’t understand but I’m thinking I guess they don’t have HIPPA regulations (patient privacy) here in Mexico.

I’m with a friend who is pregnant. She is nearing the end of her term and is at the gyn’s for an ultrasound to check on the baby’s status. Hours earlier we had made a mad rush to the hospital in Calle Doce – about thirty miles from Kino – because she wasn’t feeling well. Her husband had to work so it was just the two of us. Oh Lord, I sure didn’t want to have to deliver a baby but I threw blankets and pillows in the back of the van just in case.

While my friend is in the examination room another dark-colored van pulls up and this time a man helps a woman out who can barely stand upright she is in so much pain. This time I catch words like blood and bathroom and the woman is holding her stomach. I wonder if she hasn’t had a miscarriage. I don’t know who I feel worse for – the women who have to share their personal information with a man (a stranger) or the man who has to hear it. Somewhere in the rapid-fire Spanish I hear “campo.” Were these women working in the fields when they took ill?

There’s a dilemma – two women who need immediate attention. The receptionist, who is typical of the professional women here – perfectly groomed, pedicured and coiffed – goes back to talk to the doctor. I hear every word of their conversation and it’s obvious that the driver and the women waiting can hear it too. There’s that privacy thing again. The receptionist comes out and it’s been decided to keep the woman in the more obvious pain and send the girl with the man on to the hospital Hermosillo, another thirty miles away.

The girl sitting next to me has silently cried throughout her entire wait. She seems so sad and scared. I want to put my arms around her and hold her but I’m afraid of scaring her or breaking some kind of Mexican code of behavior. The other women ignore her. They offer no sympathy. I watch the girl walk to the van. On the faux-leather chair the decorative studs on the pockets of her jeans leave perfectly marked indentations.

Meanwhile the other woman – who is 42 years old but looks younger, which is unusual for the women here – is standing, bent over holding her belly, in obvious pain. When she first arrived she attempted to sit down but I watched her reach down between her legs and quickly pull her hand away. I think she’s afraid of bleeding on the furniture. She is probably grateful she has on loose-fitting black nylon drawstring pants.

The receptionist and I watch television. No novela, no game show, but a more sedate news-type show which is more appropriate for a doctor’s office.

My friend comes out and we wait for the ultrasound photos. She pays for her visit – 300 pesos – less than $30. We have to go back to the hospital to get the results of her lab work but neither of us have eaten so we stop at Pollo Feliz for a mediocre lunch but at least there’s a bathroom which is so tiny my pregnant friend can barely fit between the wall and the toilet. The floor is covered in a mixture of pee and water. I have to be careful to hold onto the cuffs of my pants as I sit.

During lunch I ask her about the women at the gyn’s office.

It seems they both had the same problem, whatever that was, and when the receptionist went to the doctor to ask him what she should do, he blew up at her. How was he to know when he hadn’t seen them yet? My friend said the receptionist cried at being yelled at. But somehow he made the decision to send the girl to the hospital in Hermosillo and keep the older woman.

“Did they work in the fields? I thought I heard the driver say campo.”

“Yes, I think so,” she says.

“Will your husband be with you when you deliver?” I ask.

“No. Men are not allowed because it is one big open room where the mothers are lined up. We can bring another woman with us.”

She and her brothers had been born at home and we both agree that would be the ideal option if only there was a midwife in our town. "But the woman who helped my mother give birth, she had no tools. What did she use?” I tell her about the time in my life when I assisted at home births."All she needed was some clean towels, sheets and a pot of boiling water to sterilize the scissors to cut the cord.”

We return to the hospital to get the lab results. All’s well with my friend’s baby. Her worries had caused her blood pressure to spike. She’s been hearing too many nightmarish stories about that hospital and all the babies who have died there.

When we get back to our town we joke that we should find a newborn baby to borrow so she can walk into her house and surprise the hell out of her family. Finding a newborn baby would be easy but it probably wouldn’t have been a nice thing to do.

We’re both wiped out. It’s been a long eight-hour day – her scheduled office visit was an hour late, there was difficulty finding a blood pressure cuff that worked, then the visit to the gynecologist’s office. With all our stops this hugely pregnant woman had to climb in and out of my humongous van.

Of course the first thing I do when I get home is pour a gin and tonic. Then I give people in the park - gringos and workers - an update on our friend’s status. She’s fine, bebe’s fine and thankfully there was no roadside delivery.

At first, while waiting with my friend to be seen by the doctor at the hospital, I thought what a horror the Mexican medical system was, especially the long wait in a room filled with sick people, mostly children hacking and coughing. (There are many asthmatic children here because of dust from the fields, not to mention other ills caused by the fertilizers and chemicals used.) Then the trip to the gyn’s office for the ultrasound, then back to the hospital for the lab results. But, really, this isn’t any different than ERs in big U.S. cities where people go for routine medical care because they don’t have insurance. At least the medical treatment my friend received that day at the hospital was free. Even her meds were free as long as she got them at the hospital pharmacy – as long as the pharmacy had them in stock. And $30 for a visit to a gyn’s office for an ultrasound? How much would that cost in the U.S.? I heard last night that if a woman is required to have an ultrasound before an abortion, that’s an additional $200.

The other benefit here is the paid maternity leave although there are some caveats: a woman does not start receiving “disability” pay until her 33^rd week of pregnancy and she must work up until that time. Should she have a problem with her pregnancy and not be able to work, she loses the maternity benefit. Her paid time off is three months, I think. But this is only for people whose employers pay into the system. At least that’s how I understood it.

I have no medical insurance. But as long as I have cash or room on my credit card, I can be seen at one of the private hospitals in Hermosillo which are more like hotels than medical facilities. Needless-to-say, a hospital stay here is much cheaper than in the U.S. And if you are old enough for Medicare and have the supplemental insurance, the hospital bills them directly and, depending on the insurance company, pays 80% to the whole shebang.

Even though I stayed up late (I had to watch Portlandia), I had a difficult time falling asleep so I took half a Xanax a friend had given me. I kept thinking about that young woman. She seemed so fragile and sad and alone. None of the other women paid her any notice. I guess that’s what you do when there is a lack of privacy; you learn to shut out the pain that is around you.

Pizza in Paradise

A social week comes to a screaming (as in laughter) end as we clip D's and C's long tresses to the clothesline.

Saturday. The rodeo in Suaqui. Next year I'll camp out in Vanna so I can enjoy the nighttime dancing and festivities without risking my life on the nighttime road from Suaqui to Kino.

Sunday. Tattoo, pic taken at the tattoo studio while in progress. Still waiting for it to totally heal before posting a picture of the final image.

Monday and Tuesday. Wham bam thank you ma'am work marathon. I now know lots about Alzheimer's disease. Keep exercising that brain!

Wednesday. Private dinner party. What?! I went to a dinner party? Si. Was kindly invited to fill in for someone who couldn't make it.

Thursday. Cocktail party.  What?! I went to a cocktail party? Si. At one of the large homes on the beach. Always wanted to see the inside. Emotionally wrung out after two nights of chit-chat and schmoozing with the upper echelon.

Friday. L and I decided to walk a little later in the morning and go to LaPalapa for lunch. After tacos gobernador and micheladas, we yearned for Jorge's - a less windy (therefore warmer) deck. But alas we were without a vehicle. The waiter told us we'd just missed the bus and another wouldn't be by for an hour. What the hell, let's go to the road and see if we can hitch. Got friendly waves from the guys in the military truck and then VOILA! the bus! Yay for late-running Mexican buses. We landed at Jorge's a few minutes later and only a few pesos lighter. After a drink or two we walked over to Casa Blanca where we figured there'd be a pretty good likelihood of getting a ride back to Kino Viejo. We ate, we drank, we watched buses come and go. The lovely barmaid loaned us her car.

Saturday. Returned car to above-mentioned barmaid. Got haircut. Kept the drinking down to one vodka and tonic at Jorge's and ditto at Casa Blanca. Got home and discovered The Walking Dead season 1 marathon on amc. Zombie heaven! I watched every episode, was up until 12:30 a.m., dreamed dreams inspired by six hours of blood drama.

Sunday. Another walk with L, this time in the other direction, past the muelle to Jacquelyn condominiums, then over to the plaza for the Familias Unidos food-a-thon. While walking on the beach we ran into Cristina. "Hey, I was going to call you later to see if we could come over for pizza tonight." No problema, she replied. Then at the plaza ran into R. "Hey, we're going for pizza tonight. Can you come?" No problema, he said. Awesome. Back home, more catching up on The Walking Dead season 2 shows I'd missed.

In la noche at Cristina's Paradise Pizza.

L. brought jello shots. She really knew how to tongue those things. The rest of us struggled. I ended up squeezing my cup too hard and breaking it.

We toured the long-defunct restaurant which was going to be quite the hot spot but money problems and structural problems led to its collapse.

A rare sight on our beaches, a bikini-clad woman doing yoga. She'd picked a private spot. Little did she know she was being ogled and admired and photographed.

Cristina outdid herself with the pizzas.

Upon our return to Islandia, partaking of one last nightcap, we clipped someone's hair to the laundry hanging thingy.

Then proceeded to try to take scary pictures...

...to no avail.

The evening ended just in time for me to catch the 1st episode of the new season of The Walking Dead.

A little too much socializing for my taste but a pretty good balance between work and fun. I'm hoping for a lower-key week this week, less blah-blah-blah, more quiet time reading, but shoot, there's dinner on Tuesday, bingo on Wednesday, crafts fare on Saturday, no work on the horizon, and no telling what will fill in the gaps. Maybe Prohibition and Proseco (if my liver can handle it).

Vanna Blue - Queen of the Desert

Vanna sure was pretty when I first bought her.
She will be again.

Someone asked why I chose to live in Kino and my reply was that I didn't choose Kino. I didn't even choose Mexico. It just happened.

I've given up making plans. The last plan I made was when I left Portland in November 2004 - and that plan was only to head to the desert and see where that got me. Since then I've relied on signs but for the past three years there's been a dearth of signs especially in relation to Kino - nothing in the wind or the stars or the sea swells telling me it's time to leave so I took that as a sign to stay. And quite possibly this was a sign: getting the trailer road ready would take money (blown tires, dead fridge, stuck black tank valve) and money's been as scarce as omens.

Once I decided to be here now and take things as they came, my days fell into a manana rhythm (excluding the holidays which are not easy for me). Never quite fitting in with the right-wing retired coupled-up snowbird community, I began meeting people - mostly women - who even if coupled-up can do things without their spouses (Margarita Monday). A bar opened and although I'm too broke to revive my barfly lifestyle, at least it's there when I need it. Last summer in Kino was the best, the town brimming on weekends with mariachis and vacationers from cities like Hermosillo and Ciudad Juarez. We discovered restaurants and the VIP movie lounge in Hermosillo. I continue butchering Spanish and appreciate the patience and humor of my Mexican friends.

But still I wrestled with feeling is this it? Am I stuck here? And if so, is this the place I want to be stuck? There's more exploring I want to do - Mexico and the Desert Southwest, visit family in St. Louis, friends in Portland and New Orleans - but there's that damn money issue.

Then a shift.

Work is picking up for the company I sub-contract for. And in March I'll receive my first social security check. I never ever thought I'd be so excited about being a senior citizen. Freedom doesn't take a lot of money but, trust me, it takes some and some is what I'll have.

Then a sign.

Chatting with two women RVers who told of stopping off at Slab City (or The Slabs) on their way here - not that I'd ever want to live there but The Slabs is a place I'd like to see - one of the women mentioned selling her motor coach and buying something smaller - maybe a campervan. Back in my trailer - not 5 minutes later - was this article about The Slabs from Time Magazine. My heart skipped a beat. I want to go there. I looked out the trailer window at Vanna. Hell, I already own a campervan!

I've spent the days since then (when not at the Suaqui rodeo, getting tattooed then getting super inebriated on ginebra while watching the Super Bowl) researching ways to customize the interior of Vanna to make her more campable. It won't take much: flooring, bed, cabinetry. Maybe a solar panel so I can work on the road. She needs a new paint job, make sure those roof patches are holding up. Most of the remodeling work can be done here.

Finally, something to be enthusiastic about! It's the same excitement I felt when I researched Airstream trailers. The sticky substance that's kept my imagination immobile is being melted off. Kino can be my home base and when the gringos or heat get to be too much I can vamanos my ass out of here in Vanna, who's the most flexible rig I know, going from storage unit to mobile home, kind of like a masked crusader or super heroine.

The conversion may take longer than a quick change in a phone booth but I'll keep ya'll posted.

Raining Cats and Dogs

This guy is huge. Notice how he takes up the whole seat in the chair. He's pretty, too, in spite of the scarred nose and missing ear pieces.

He showed up a couple months ago, at night. I thought he was an apparition because one minute he was there, the next gone. Gone for a week before I saw him again.

Well-fed, friendly, this is no feral cat. But where does he live? Is he Mexicano or Americano? I've tried speaking to him in Spanish and in English. He responds to both - he answers, talks constantly.

I don't mind feeding him, having him around, but I'd heard him fighting with Blue, the park cat who's been abandoned by - hm, let's see, how many people? Three. So by default, she's mine. And she's huge too. This is the only photo I've been able to snap of her, under my trailer step, although she's not shy; I'm just too slow with the camera.

But somewhere along the line Blue and the Big Cat worked things out. I was on the porch with Blue when BC came meowing around the trailer. Blue walked up to him and kissed him! The next time they saw each other, she did it again.

Big Cat isn't as nicely groomed as he was when he first showed up. His fur is a little more matted and I can feel bites or fleas or ticks or something along his back. I wonder if he's been recently abandoned. Maybe he and Blue bonded over their shared experience.

One day I went outside because I'd heard a kitten meowing. It was trapped on the roof of the bodega, looking down at me between the roof slats. Jesus, so now cats are falling from the sky? I got Manny to help get the kitten down. Like the Big Cat, the kitten was friendly and well cared for - clear eyes, pretty fur. But no way I could feed three cats so I did the worst thing I could've done: I gave him to a Mexican family. I knew their daughter would like the kitten but I knew, too, that they couldn't afford to feed a cat. They live in a house with no doors and with dirt floors. They wanted a mouser. I'm afraid they think the kitten can live on mice alone. The dilemma: do I give them a bag of food now and then? Or do I leave that kitten to his fate? At least they live way out on the edge of town where he won't be battling dogs and cars.

Recently two puppies were dropped over the trailer park wall. That happens a lot here. People know that Americanos are suckers for taking in strays. Sure enough, the people who found the puppy are keeping her, taking her to the U.S. when they go. She's one lucky dog.

The morning after my birthday I was driving home from Casa Blanca where I'd gone to breakfast with friends, hoping grease would be the cure for my hangover. A dog ran across the road. It looked very strange. What the hell....? Finally we could see that the poor thing had his head stuck inside a plastic bottle. Must've been licking out the remnants of whatever was in there. I didn't stop - the breakfast eggs, potatoes and bacon were rebelling against the previous night's tequila.

A dog's life in Mexico sucks. That's why so many expats start shelters or spay and neuter clinics - those procedures are outrageously expensive here, more than in the U.S. so it's no wonder people can't afford to get them done.

If Big Cat starts hanging out at my trailer on a regular basis, I may try to find a home for him only this time with a gringo, someone who lives in Kino or who will take him to a better life in El Norte. On the other hand, as long as he behaves himself, he can stay here. I think Blue likes having a friend.